Skip to main content

Two Cents

 Another letter came in the mail the other day.

Another notification from the TD Bank regarding my father's estate.

He had passed away more than two years ago, and yet these letters still arrive in the mail.

After having closed everything out, completed all the required tasks of his estate, carrying out all the executrix duties that I was appointed with, this one last account keeps on keeping on.

Every few months I am notified by this letter that there are $.02 cents left remaining in this RRIF account.

An account that I know that I closed down and dispersed.

An account that should have long ago been shuttered and done away with.

But no.

There it is.

A constant reminder that my dad has passed away, and that there are $.02 cents left remaining in this particular RRIF account.

I have tried calling and emailing the bank, to no avail.

This notice persists on being mailed and delivered.

And so I have come to think of it as my dad's two cents.

He is still giving me his two cents.

He is still letting me know that he is and always will be my dad, my father, chiming in on what he thinks should be happening.

I can still hear him burst into laughter when I tell him something about my plans or about something that has happened.

The laughter is usually in response to something that I think is monumental, but he sees otherwise.

Through the wisdom of age and experience, and non-stop listening to CBC Radio, he is able to drill down to what is really important.

And what is not.

I will give him that as a father.

He was a good dad, a good parent.

He always set me on the straight path, nudging me gently towards an interesting career in tv  when I decided to go back to college to study journalism.

He persuaded me to give my two weeks notice when I was so done with my 20+ year tv career that I just wanted to walk out the door one Friday night and never look back.  

I guess that was a good idea, in hindsight.

He offered me, without my asking, interest free loans for cars and courses and veterinarians, knowing my character was such that I would pay him back diligently and then some.

He paid for a trip for us to fly out to B.C. to visit with (and check up on) my younger brother, and then paid for my brother to fly out to visit us several times from B.C.

He treated us both to lunches and dinners at Swiss Chalet more often than I can count.

He always encouraged, never doubted, always gently suggesting towards the right path, not demanding or commanding, as some parents do.

He was generous to a fault, treating this and that and the other, and always buying flowers, gifting coins and collectible stamps, and other things that he considered worthy keepsakes.

I think of him now with mixed feelings, even as I always did when he was alive.

He was always so proud of me and my accomplishments, my career in tv, my writing and anything else I did.

He had molded me to be conscientious and accountable and to finish what I started.

These fatherly things and dad-like contributions are something for which I will always be grateful.

And so now every time I receive a notice from the TD bank in the mail that my dad has $.02 cents left in his account, I have chosen to take it as a notice that my dad is somewhere, somehow, still giving me his two cents.

Keeping me on the up and up, nose to the grindstone, doing the right thing.

Not that I would ever do otherwise; I was parented much better than that, and I inherited all the good DNA.

Anyways, dad, if you are still giving me your two cents, thank you for that.

I still hear your voice, your laughter, your "Oh, Sharry!" (your nickname for me), your English accent, your occasional derisive sniff, and think of you every time I am in the grocery store as I pick up some flowers.

Because I know that's what you would have done.


Popular posts from this blog

The Best Kept Secret

  When I was first hired by CKVR-TV as an anchor and reporter back in 1993, I was living in a small apartment in Richmond Hill. I was happy to commute back and forth in my little Honda Civic, up and down Highway 400. There was no way I was moving up to Barrie. That was farm country. Where the rubes lived. It even had a Co-op store, where country bumpkins bought their farm feed and supplies. The only culture that city had was agriculture. Imagine! I was better than that! I had been born and raised in the thriving metropolis of Oakville, then we moved to Brampton when I was a teenager.   I even lived in Montreal for several years while in my roaring twenties, for goodness sake!  La creme de la creme of culture and sophistication! Well, after three long years of driving up and down that Highway 400, surviving snow storms and other harrowing highway experiences, I succumbed. In 1996, I moved up. Literally and figuratively. And I have, sinc...

Hostage Taking

 Dear Mrs. Raccoon; I would like my garden back please. I know you are raising your five adorable babies in the window well under our deck. I know you need a safe space to do so, and thought that would be suitable. Well, you have worn out your welcome. I am sure they are big enough to move along to a suitable forest. I know one just down the street. I realize they are still nursing on you. I can see you all through our basement window. A clear view of your nursery. And yes, your babies are cute beyond reason. Snuggly and cuddly and who wouldn't want to just pick them up and kiss them to death. It is you, Mrs. Raccoon, who has put the fear of god into me. I am afraid of you, to be quite frank. Ever since that afternoon last week when I was enjoying a snack out on the back deck. I saw you out the corner of my eye, as you came up onto the deck and wanted some of that snack! Thankfully I had a broom handy - just in case - and was able to wave you away. ...

Big Bang Therapy

  Remember the one where Penny fell in the shower and Sheldon had to drive her to the hospital? Or the episode where Sheldon got several cats to replace Amy but then ended up giving them away to kids along with $20? Or the one where... It doesn't really matter which episode you watch. They are all great therapy after a really long, hard day. Or an emotionally grueling experience. Or you just need some mind candy for awhile to take your thoughts off things. Great therapy. As all the characters wend their way through their own foibles, there is always a message in there somewhere for all of us. As Howard negotiates his overbearing mother, and frighteningly similar wife, somehow, somewhere, we can all relate a little. And there is always a great deal of humor to get us through. Always at someone's expense, but in the end, all is forgiven in the name of friendship. And there's always a lesson thrown in along the way. Either for Sheldon, as he learn...